


Bitter Sweet

by lasergirl



Category: Second Sight (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl





	1. Chapter 1

_**Second Sight: BitterSweet 1/3**_  
**Title:** BitterSweet  
**Fandom:** _Second Sight_  
**Rating:** G/PG (M/F, M/M)  
**Pairing:** Tanner/Tully, minor Tanner/Pewsey  
**Notes:** Ross Tanner has lost the sharp eyes of Catherine Tully, but finds they have been replaced by an unlikely ally.

  
Because when she kissed him, her lips tasted of sweet almonds and he knew she'd broken her promise and not waited for him; the talk had been of plans to meet after his briefing was done (naked, alone without her). The unspoken promise was she would drive him home, stay the night and when he woke the next morning she would be there, curled into his side with her lips at his throat.

Ross Tanner spat the taste from his mouth, brushing the rest of the kiss off with the back of his hand. One hand pressed tight against the rough brick at his shoulder, an anchor in the uneasy swirls of wind and sound that swept past him.

"Stupid bitch," and he spat again to prove the point, heard her heels clicking smartly off to the car that he knew sat just out of his sight, and he let her go. Not because he didn't need her (the truth was quite plain he did) but because he couldn't, _wouldn't_ let himself get dragged back into the same circular arguments over and over.

Catherine Tully had slipped into his world suddenly, an insidious presence, wormed her way through his hard little heart and into the other side of his bed before he knew it. His world was spinning, he couldn't tell up from down -- and this was before the final diagnosis had come through from his opthamologist, back when he still trailed his knuckles along cracked plaster as though he could divine the path ahead of him. By the time she was there, he needed her more than he could say. Always, looming over his head was the undeniable spectre of unemployment, the rest of his life on a pension, sidetracked from the real rush and rythym of detective work by a rare and random virus that slowly robbed him of his eyesight. By the time the doctors had pinpointed it, his eyes were shot, vision spasmodic and unpredictable. He'd learned too quickly to hide it, but was a step too slow for Tully. She sunk her teeth into the scruff of his neck as swiftly as any predator, acting under the illusion of pity (which he hated) and persuading him to believe she cared (which he hated even more). Tit for tat, she kept score and blackmailed him into prime cases, hot collars that guaranteed reputation and advancement, and then to show him a lesson, she left him.

He straightened up, touched fingertips to the brickwork and set out towards the lighter blur of nightlit street, where the noise and movement told him there would be taxicabs and a sure ferry home.

"Guv'nor!" He was dragged back to the grim present reality by a call behind him. He pinned the voice; DS Pewsey, his friend and co-worker of many years and cases. The bastard must have been watching.

"Yeah, Elvis?" Tanner put on the business front, calm, cool and collected. The blur that was Pewsey approached him, gradually swimming into clearer view. The Sergeant stopped, sniffed and tapped a cigarette out of his packet.

"She, uh, she gone, then?" The glance was in the direction of Tully's vanished footsteps, and Tanner nodded, shrugged an affirmative. "What are you gonna do then?"

"Do?" Tanner flashed a grin, knowing it was hopeless; Pewsey had him and he knew it. All those tense moments of fearing, the eternal litany of 'he'sgotme he'sgotme' running through the back of his mind, and Tanner knew he was caught. "Well, let her go I suppose. There isn't much I can do about that."

And Pewsey broke it; "There something wrong with you? Your eyes, right? And don't say I haven't noticed." It was the accidental collisions, the slick-yet-frantic groping for doorhandles, maybe he'd caught the trace of trailing knuckles along the walls.

"I knew you were too good a detective to let it go," said Tanner, at least relieved to tell someone. He took a deep breath and started the rehearsed line. "It's some sort of virus thing, my eyes go blurry and I can't see clearly. The doctors say it's temporary. It hasn't gotten any worse."

Lies. It was so easy to pass them now, in the wake of Catherine's departure. So easy to trick himself into believing the real reasons; it was nighttime, and naturally no one could see across the street in the dark, even superhuman Ross Tanner. At his elbow, Pewsey smoked and leaned against the brick wall at his back.

"You see someone about it?"

"I'll pardon the phrase," said Tanner, "and yes, I have. It's all the same. It should clear up in a month or two. On your life, don't tell a soul about it, yeah? I need someone I can trust."

Panic; the fear that someone would put two and two together and come up with more than three -- that he would be invalided out of service -- that his brilliant police record would go down in flames. Tanner felt his heart pounding, teeth clenched.

Easily, Pewsey chuckled, inhaled… exhaled. A waft of smoke drifted across Tanner's face. He bowed his head, pressing fingertips into aching eyes, trying hard not to pray.

"That was Tully was doing for you, right?" Pewsey nudged with a sharp elbow, the grin painting itself into his voice. "I mean, aside from all the other duties, no doubt."

Tanner felt his mouth go dry. "Elvis, you have to stick with me on this, if they find out I'm done. I can't stop working, you know that. I don't want your pity either, that would be worse. Just… trust me, alright? It'll get better. It'll be like nothing ever happened."

Pewsey dropped his cigarette butt to the kerb, stepped on it and ground it into dust under his toe. There was a silence in which Tanner counted his heart beat fifteen times. The blur of Pewsey mused, stargazed and finally reached out and grasped Tanner's forearm in a hard grip.

"You can trust me, Guv," he said. "You need a lift home?"

Questions? Comments? Feedback always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

And time passed, trickling and then rushing, a broken tap and as the days passed Pewsey stayed mum and didn't give it away. But then there was DI Boyd - stickler for detail, eyes that could see through the back of his head, that sort of thing. He was a brilliant detective and Tanner was afraid of him, what he could see and do, the opinions he could sway.

Having DI Pewsey at his side day by day made it a little easier - but at the same time Tanner found himself wishing he'd said more to keep Tully on the team. Blood was thicker than water, he figured, always was - Pewsey and he went way back and he knew the Sergeant wouldn't let him fall, cock it up.

The new base of operations Tanner knew like the back of his hand - even though he couldn't see either clearly anymore. He knew the hallways, counted doors and footsteps with regularity. Days came and went (some better than others) and things got done and - amazement - cases were solved, reputations forged. And Tanner was afraid to stop running, for fear the black cloud hanging over his shoulder would descend suddenly, engulf him and he'd lose everything. That was the key; head up, shoulders straight, stride long and even. He had to trust Pewsey wouldn't let him crash headlong into the furniture, though he snarled nastily when saved.

The daily briefings were less an outright terror than an obstacle course - a series of lies to string out, avoid the paperwork, duck under cover while Pewsey read the headlines.

And the vision of Catherine slowly faded, strung out along days and weeks, receding into the fog.

 

Then, of course, it was that shiny DI Boyd, good old Jack who thought he had the answers and tried to call it on him: Boyd who'd watched his own father crumble under the strain of policework, Boyd who didn't give a shit about Tanner's own fearsome reputation, Boyd who saw his own kinds of truth in the symptoms laid out for him.

Boyd, who shut Tanner into his own private office and called the cards. Tanner sat, mouthing empty lies and digging fingernails into his palms. The encounter he'd been fearing since the doctor's diagnosis.

"Look, Tanner," and Boyd leaned solidly back against the office door, effectively sealing the two of them up close and personal. "I know the signs. If you've got a problem you don't have to go it alone, yeah? We're a team for a reason - share the struggles, share the responsibility."

Tanner lowered his gaze and found his hands fretting with the corner of his blotter. His desk was a sea of scattered white, illegible, a surreptitious pile under the hot yellow glare of the gooseneck lamp (magnifying glass in the upper right hand drawer). He found himself twitching, forming a bemused grin for display purposes.

"Boyd, I know you're a hotshot - " easy grin, calming the motion of his hands; moist, palms flat against the desktop "- but these are some things you wouldn't understand. You know you have the wrong ideas about me - sure, this is your first SI team effort, yeah? Things are going to look strange to your eyes until you settle in."

"With respect, Sir, there's nothing wrong with my eyes. What I'm seeing, Sir, if you have a drinking problem you've nothing to be ashamed of. But sooner or later someone's going to notice, and -"

A rap at the door behind Boyd's shoulderblades, the door banged open against the heel of his shoe.

"Pardon me, Guv," and thank God is was DS Pewsey, though Tanner would never admit to the relief of his arrival. "Am I interrupting anything?"

Canary yanked from his teeth, Boyd glared at the Sergeant with undisguised bile. Tanner stood and pointedly showed him towards the door.

"You're in over your head, DI Boyd," he said pleasantly, his hand on Boyd's arm like iron, "Don't go jumping to conclusions or you'll have to request a transfer."

"That what happened to DI Tully?" Boyd turned on him, snapping like a cornered dog. Tanner drew back as if bitten, his damaged eyes trying to convince him of that bizarre fact.

"What happened to DI Tully is not for you to speculate, alright? When I need your opinions on something even resembling a case, you'll know."

Pewsey whistled in admiration as the door finally swung shut. Good, solid wood and the pebbled glass rattled as it came home.

"You know that'll only keep him off your back for about ten minutes, don't you?"

"When he slaps me with a chronic alcoholism suit, don't you?" Tanner rubbed his forehead, wiping the dog-faced Boyd's image from his memory. "Christ, Elvis, he won't sit on something like that." He stumbled back to his desk, eyes burning with salt tears he couldn't let fall. The horror of embarrassment - the humiliation of being caught out, unprepared.

And then Pewsey's hand was there on his shoulder, there too warm and a fraction of a second too long and Tanner stopped, squinted back at his friend.

"You said it was temporary," Pewsey said warily, "Ross - is there something you're not telling me?"

With the tears this time was a dizzying white flash that took the whole room wide out of focus, throwing Tanner into his chair with a choked curse in the back of his throat.

"Later, Elvis," he pushed away Pewsey's hand bonelessly, every ounce of energy drained. "This isn't the time or the place, yeah?"

How he got through the rest of the day - meetings, evidence reviews - he couldn't tell. When he came up for air it was evening and Pewsey was rapping knuckles at his office door and shaking the keys in his pocket.

"You can't work all the time, Guv," he said apologetically, "but I can give you a life."

"Yeah," said Tanner, shuffling together the obscene amounts of paperwork he couldn't read - not after the sun went down, not in this light - stuffed it into a satchel, groped his way into the weight of his leather jacket. He could feel Pewsey's eyes on him. "Bloody tiring day it was, yeah?"

"Yeah," Pewsey said, stiff-lipped, and let Tanner fall into his wake, fingers just behind his elbow as they walked out of the building. The long, dark halls echoed emptily, so different than their character by day. The organism that was the Special Murder Unit slumbered.


	3. Chapter 3

Trouble at Tanner's door; fatigue robbed him of what vestigial acuity he normally possessed, couldn't key in the proper sequence, nearly put his fist through the safety glass of the front door before Pewsey intervened. Then he followed Tanner up the stairs, a careful guiding hand on his arm, watching for a wrong step or a stumble.

Tanner raged; "I'm not a child, Elvis, I can look after myself," charged up the stairs, barking his shins against the top step. He swore foully, biting the inside of his lip, a bubble of blood bursting on his tongue as he fumbled at the lock of his flat. Damn him, and Pewsey had the door open before he knew it.

"You're getting worse, is that right?" Pewsey, hands in pockets, afraid to come in yet reluctant to leave; hovering in the doorway like some goddamn spectre. Naturally, the living room was in a shambles, the extra sheets from Sam's makeshift bed on the sofa strewn across the coffee table, and the blasted dog, curled in the middle of it all.

"Lucky, down," Tanner heaved the dog bodily from the sofa, shut him up in the bathroom (where he cried) and turned to Pewsey with an apologetic phrase on his lips. "It's more complicated than that." He knew Pewsey's sharp detective's eyes would pick up all the little details; had seen Tully in his flat, remembered everything. The details were nothing when the overall picture was flawed. "Look, it's… not a question of hope anymore, okay?"

In futility, Tanner groped for the sofa, cleared the mess of blankets off and sprawled, thankful nothing protruded or moved when he touched it. After a second, Pewsey cleared his throat nervously.

"Shall I go, then?"

Tanner knew his friend's face would be that pale, lined nervous look, concern showing in the creases across his forehead. God, what could be worse than a peer's pity, a man who'd known him years and years. Maybe it was time to come clean.

"No it's - it's good to have someone here. But what I say is between you and me, yeah?"

Pewsey nodded silently - checked himself and muttered "of course" to cover it up.

"I'll get something to drink - get the door, would you?" And nervous energy propelled Tanner into the relative safety of his kitchen. The liquor cabinet he knew by touch - shot of scotch whiskey, let it slide around a few ice cubes and - his hands slipped, or he misjudged the distance, cracked the neck of the bottle against the rim of the highball. The splintering glass brought Pewsey in, agitated, Tanner sucking his nicked fingertip.

"I'm fine, for Christ's sake, don't baby me!" Breathing deep, calming the panic that rose inside of him, Tanner managed to pour a replacement, took the glasses out to the sofa and the coffee table, and he and Pewsey sat.

Tanner gulped at the scotch and winced, the headache brewing behind his damaged eyes threatening to spread past the dull ache at his temples. He sighed, rubbing his hand across his face. It wasn't like he'd been practicing this story every day in front of the mirror. The truth, then.

"It's this virus I've got," he said after a moment, waiting for the blur of Pewsey to put down his glass. "Rare, and there's no cure. There was the hope that it would stop, after the virus ran its course. Some victims even spontaneously recover after a period. I mean, there's always hope. So even though it's not getting any worse, it's not going to get any better. Sort of stuck between two worlds, yeah? Not even sure if I'm blind or not. Some days it's like I've got gauze over my eyes. Those are good days. Then some days - today - I can't see a bloody thing."

Now it was Pewsey's turn to shift, uncomfortable in the hot seat. He sipped, coughed gently to clear his throat. "How are you managing? Apart from the - well, I can't do everything, you know?" His chuckle was pure nerves, a hitch in his easy good nature.

"No," said Tanner blackly. "And Cath- DI Tully, she thought I needed a lesson." His mirroring laugh wasn't good natured at all; all bile, bitter to the core. "If Lawson was to find out, before the Special Murder Unit has a chance to make a name for itself, we're through. I'm through. I thought, if I can bluff it long enough I might recover, but she went and buggered it all up. I tried not to replace her but…"

He could smell Pewsey's aftershave, not strongly, just enough to remind him the man was still there. Their knees were almost touching; Tanner could feel the closeness. His fortitude wavered, the headache came surging back in full force. Falling. Seeing a swirl of racing light, Tanner slammed the drink down on the tabletop, crushing his head into his hands, willing the hallucination to end. He choked back a moan.

"You alright?" Alarmed, Pewsey was there at his elbow, holding him up, anchoring him back in the world his eyes were trying desperately to shut out. The wave of vertigo passed, the sudden terrifying vision stopped as abruptly as it started. Tanner found his fingers locked around Pewsey's wrist in a death grip.

"I, I see things sometimes," he stammered, coaxing his rigid fingers to ease off, "Ocular hallucinations are common with this sort of sight loss. They get worse with stress and fatigue. Who knows, tomorrow could be a good day, yeah?"

Pewsey gulped; the realization that the two of them were sitting entwined on the sofa vaguely reached Tanner's brain; his brain didn't care. The comfort, any comfort, was reassuring enough. Beyond the unfocused halo of his vision, the flat was dark, foreboding, a forest of entanglements and injuries waiting to happen.

"You trying not to replace DI Tully?" The words were clipped, nervous little admissions; the light hands on his arm told Tanner that Pewsey wasn't retreating, and so why should he?

"I already did," said Tanner, dipped his head and took Pewsey's hands to his face. The warmth burned sudden pinpoints of light against his closed eyelids. "Just make me see something that's not her."

Pewsey made a strangled noise in his throat, a bird-like tic that quavered in the silence between them. Against Tanner's paper-thin eyelids, his fingers trembled, then swept back across his brows, smoothing away the worry lines, resting upon his neck at the curve of his jaw. Not wanting to see, or even attempt to see, Tanner closed his eyes tight shut, his hands trailing down from Pewsey's wrists, along his forearms.

"Put out the light," Tanner said, "and you'll see what it's like."

With the light doused, he was in effect totally blind, unable to see the stripes of streetlight painted on the walls, the patches of moonlight and neon highlighting the furniture from the skylight. Pewsey stumbled against the low-riding coffee table, biting back the curse that sprang to his lips. Tanner reached out towards the sound and pulled him in, the touch of his fingertips butterfly-light across his shirtfront. Pewsey leaned awkwardly in, his lips brushing against the corner of Tanner's mouth. Scotch tickled sharp against his nostrils, followed by the spice of aftershave, the scent of worry and tobacco.

It had been so long Tanner wasn't even sure what to do with his hands; Catherine had always led him across her body, marking the trail so plainly he couldn't have missed it. His forays across her had been tinged with guilt, a fearful speculation that he was falling into a trap he should have been able to see. But this, this was different in ways he couldn't have imagined; Pewsey took his cues, leading and following both, thoughtful and thorough, the difference of intimacy and shared curiosity.

"Can barely see a thing," said Pewsey, his mouth in the hollow of Tanner's collarbone, salt on his tongue. "Jesus Christ!" He jerked as Tanner's fingers strayed through the breached buttons of his shirtfront, the knot in his tie only a memory. Air flashed cold against his bare chest, Tanner's finger tracing elaborate, cryptic trails in the darkness.

"Maybe now you'll understand what I'm going through," said Tanner, before they both curled onto each other, hot mouths and urgent, groping fingers moving against each other. And after that, neither of them spoke, sotto voce grunts telegraphing instead. Then Pewsey's hands were unfastening his trousers, and Tanner let him at it. For a moment Tanner thought he could see Pewsey clearly, haloed in the light from above, or maybe it was just a wishful thought, his brain trying to complete the image. He pushed the thought away, back into the darkness and it engulfed him, moving in with Pewsey's body heat and touch, searing away unpleasant memories.

After, it was a while before Tanner scraped enough of his brain cells together to think about trying to struggle upright, light a lamp, pick up the spilled scotch glass from the carpet near his feet. His fatigued thoughts finally registered the damn dog was still crying in the bathroom, the remote for the tv was digging into his back. Air-cooled spit and slick wetness pooled on his belly. Beside him, Pewsey was in similar disarray, bare shoulders and hands buried under the spare sheets that had wrapped themselves across his hips. Tanner stared up at the skylight and what he imagined to be the moon, bathing the room in a brilliant silver glow. As he watched the vision swam, wavered and rippled into nothing.

"Tomorrow," said Tanner to the room at large, not wanting to look Pewsey in the face, "It'll be business as usual. Play it close to the vest, though, buy me the time I need."

Pewsey stirred, reached out for the side table's lamp; the room swum back into view. No silvered moonlight; only two disheveled police detectives, tangled up in a child's bed sheet.

It was awkward, a little, after that; when he left the sofa to wipe up even Tanner saw Pewsey avoiding his eyes, but maybe the situation couldn't be helped. There were no rules for it, after all. Though perhaps it was the irony of the whole thing, replacing Catherine Tully nearly to the letter over the very issue of her departure. Shame? It had nothing to do with the act itself; a need and desperation made mutually apparent.

Pewsey grunted and coughed, feeling in his pockets for a cigarette. The lighter flash seared brightly and Tanner shied. "Tomorrow," he reminded Tanner, "You're going to have Boyd to worry about."

"I can deal with Boyd," Tanner stretched his arms over his head lazily, enjoying the quiet protestation of aching muscles. "And if he makes threats, well, I can take him aside and give him a stern talking-to, yeah?"

"Yeah," Pewsey said, cornering the cigarette in his mouth and straightening his clothes (shirt askew, buttons undone). When he reached presentability, he shrugged back into his suit jacket. "I'll play it cool. Anything else?"

Tanner didn't need to say it but he did anyway, with a half-smile that faded back into worry lines again; "Just between you and me, Elvis," he said, "You and me."

Pewsey might have winked or shot him an answering grin as he left, but Tanner didn't see it. After the door closed, he fumbled out for the light and switched it back off, hoping to be bathed in a sea of moonlight again. The room was black, silent and empty.

"Well, I'll be damned."


End file.
